Our Father
by homesickpirate
Summary: A prayer won't save America now. Not when his capital is burning, and England is behind him whispering harsh words and the world has turned its back. Warning: Rape, Abuse, War of 1812, Death.


America stood staring at his beloved capital, hot tears rolling uncontrollably down his face. He let out a wail and dropped to his knees, turning his head so he didn't have to see the bright orange glare of the greedy fire that raged through his city and consumed his heart. Grabbing the pew in front of him with white knuckles, he began to mutter prayers half forgotten. The only prayers he knew were ones that England taught him, but in his desperation he cried out to God hoping fervently that he would be noticed, that he would be saved. The words felt dry on his tongue as he rasped them out, breathing heavily through smoke filled lungs as he forced them out heavily.

"g fæder, þu þe on heofonum eardast," he began shakily, gasping for breath, pleading for the strength to go on.

"geweorðad wuldres dreame." He heard the cold cruel voice before he saw who it was. Gripping the pew harder, he snarled in defiance at knowing he'd lost. He didn't even have time to wonder just how England had found his sanctuary before he felt a hand grab his hair roughly and pull his head back, exposing his hate filled face.

"You'll never have me back" he growled sullenly, angrily. He knew what this was about too. This was about his bloody revolution, his independence. England just wanted to get him back, for him to submit as a colony again, a worthless item to be crushed under his boot.

England yanked his head even further back and America felt a cold knife he hadn't noticed before slide quietly beneath his chin. He gulped and breathed harder.

He felt a hot breath on his cheek and turned to see a pair of half lidded, amused eyes staring cruelly at him.

"But what if I don't want you back, love?" His voice dripped like silky smooth poison, and the words were even deadlier.

"What do you mean?" He whispered. He didn't even know if he wanted an answer, but he was already kneeling at a pew with smoke in his lungs, a knife at his throat, and his former caretaker as the perpetrator.

"Revenge." The simple reply was spoken close and soft, sending soft bursts of hot air into his ear, making him shiver in fear and something else- something he could not place.

"You wouldn't hurt me" He burst out, in a shaky display of confidence. Because England loved him, he had fought for him and bled for him, and there was no way that he could slit his throat, leave his wayward love to bleed to death in an old and burning church, was there?

England chuckled, pushing the tip of the sword into his throat. America felt warm sticky blood trickle down his neck and begin to stain his collar.

"You're right. I won't kill you. But there are other… methods" America felt a fluttering of fear in his stomach, and he instinctively tried to rip himself away, to turn around and hit England, to get him off.

England pushed the knife even deeper and twisted it, grinning wildly, a horrible light shining in his eyes. "You think you're valuable enough for me to want you still. You think I still love you. But you're wrong"

America grunted as England suddenly pulled him up to standing- near ripping his hair out- and pushed him forward till he was bent over the pew, the knife still digging into his neck forcefully. He tried to pivot himself around and push England off, but with the knife at his neck he had no choice but to stay still and snarl in anger.

"What're you going to do, spank me?" he growled angrily. "I know you haven't done it in a while, but I bet you haven't lost it yet-ah!" He let out a loud yell as he felt a large hand collide with his butt, leaving a stinging red mark, even over his pants. He jerked upwards and realized that his hands were tied. He felt another flurry of worry rip through his insides as he realized he was at the mercy of this sadistic bastard- tied up and bent over a church pew. But he still gritted his teeth and clenched his body, because he was determined not to crack, assuming that the stubborn Brit was still going to smack him like the child he thought he was.

Suddenly there was a rush of cold air as his upraised bottom was exposed to the air and he barely had a moment to brace himself before another smack crashed down heavily. He bit his lip and quelled the cry rising inside of him. But they kept coming, another and another, over and over. He could feel the hatred as the Brit hit him, and soon he could barely keep the sounds in, letting out little gasps even as he tried to stay silent. He twisted around to look pitifully at the Brit behind him, hoping he would get respite, but then he saw England's eyes flick to him, and his face contorted in rage. He turned back and grabbed his musket, and brought it down with all his might with a large smack. America screamed in pain as the feeling rocked through his body into his head. He heard something drop, vaguely from behind, but just tried to calm his shuddering breathing and still his pitiful cries.

"You think that's bad," he heard from behind him, "I only hit you, what? Ten times. You don't deserve to be a country." He heard something rustling behind him and he glanced behind him again to see England removing his belt. Even though he was scared, he couldn't resist letting his spite seep through his lips,

"and what now, you're gonna whip me too?"

England narrowed his eyes and reached out to shove America's head back forward. He was too tired to complain and just laid there quietly, shivering as he heard England busy behind him. Before long though, there was a hand on his bottom, and he quivered, preparing to be hit. But then suddenly he felt the finger reach into his hole, and he jerked in surprise and horror.

"What are you doing?" He yelled in horror, trying to twist away somehow. But he was stuck, and the finger just kept invading.

"I'm just doing to you what we countries," the Brit paused, emphasizing and savoring the last word, "do to each other."

And with that the finger was removed from him, but before he could sigh in relief, America felt something large push brutally into him, and he saw stars. He gave out a loud yell, as tears sprang to his eyes. It felt like his entire body was splitting in half as the Brit entered him. It occurred to him somehow that this was wrong, that he should be angry, but the hazy pain was so strong that he almost couldn't think. And then he was slammed into again and again, and he lost track of the blood and the time, and the screams escaping his lips.

But then there was something else. Something that shouldn't be happening to him, a horrible feeling, something worse than anything he had experienced that night. It was pleasure. It was the weird tingles in his stomach, and the strange hardening of his member, and the moans that were beginning to escape his unwilling lips. He hung his head low, willing for it to all go away, and for it to go unnoticed.

But England did notice, and he smirked loudly, grabbing America's member and stroking as he rolled his hips in and out. "You like that, don't you" he hissed into his ear. "And you hate it, too." America shivered, feeling the cold words slide into him like ice. "Remember the feeling well, boy. It's how I felt every day since you left. Until now. Now it's your turn" And with that England slammed down especially hard, and hit the bundle of nerves and America screamed; or would have if he still had his voice. America's eyes rolled back in his head as waves of pleasure assaulted him from two different places. Within a minute, he gave in, and he exploded, hissing out the name of the man he hated the most. England was much more vocal, proclaiming America to the heavens as he released himself inside of America.

After a long minute of panting, England pulled out and America was left sagging uselessly over the pew. He vaguely realized that he could feel the wind, and the fire had died down by now. He heard the rustle of clothes from behind, and struggled to move too. England sighed from behind, and muttered an oddly soft "patience, boy" before beginning to untie his hands deftly. Before long, America was free. But he didn't move, or at least, didn't want to. In fact, he didn't know what he wanted anymore. He wanted to die. No, he wanted England to die.

Then he felt England behind him, his cool hands moving over his throbbing arse and pulling up his pants as gently as he could manage- he still hissed anyway- and rolling him over so he was laying sideways on the pew. America instinctively drew himself in and shivered- it was cold and he had lost his jacket somewhere on the battlefield. Wearily, he felt a jacket being draped over his body, and a hand run over his face. But he was too tired and too shocked to realize anything, only trying to escape quickly into his pure world of dreams.

"I love you" he heard vaguely, as if from a distance.

"I shouldn't, and I hate you too. I've just raped you, I think, and I wish I was dead right now." The voice continued, and now he felt teardrops plop down onto his check. He wrinkled his face. Whoever was talking was loud and irritating, and also quite sad.

So he did the only thing he could think of. "It'll be alright." He muttered tiredly, not even knowing who he was talking to anymore. And so it was that America finally passed out, exhausted and abused, on the pew of the church. And he didn't hear the pitiful wails, "no, no, no!" And the sound of the musket being reloaded. He didn't even hear the sound of the shot, which boomed and shuddered around the whole building, and the thud of the body that crumpled on the floor next to the pew.

And he didn't know that even though the city was done burning, it was still smoke and sword and hate and blood. In the morning, of course, the half dead immortal would be gone, a trail of blood leading out into the wilds where he had wandered. America would sit up, wincing, and look at his beloved city, and he would remember.


End file.
